


you'll shine like gold in the air of summer

by akhikosanada



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fashion & Couture, Gen, M/M, Model Felix, Photographers Byleth and Sylvain, but sylvain is VERY thirsty and felix is a tease, byleth is byleth i guess, chap 2 is sylvain's pov and chap 3 is felix's, i may continue this one day, no actual relationship, no beta we die like Glenn, will i do it? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada
Summary: “Hey there,” Sylvain says after three nervously determined and abnormally wide footsteps in the man’s overall direction, “I’m Sylvain, and you’re-”“Not interested in discussion.”In line with Byleth’s predictions, Sylvain does not let the harsh baritone of the voice deter him in any way, and his lips curl into a smile Byleth knows all too well. “Good. Then let’s just let our bodies do the talki—”“Very sorry for my assistant,” Byleth intervenes before there’s real, human blood in the water of the model’s outfit, putting a hand to Sylvain’s mouth and pushing him back, hard. “Byleth Eisner. I was hired by Miss Hresvelg for today’s photoshoot.”Byleth shoots a new face for Faerghus Couture. Written for 3 Maisons de Couture zine.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 151





	you'll shine like gold in the air of summer

**Author's Note:**

> I have four pages of lore about this universe that I didn't manage to fit into a 1500-word fic, so I guess I'll have to write some more now lmao
> 
> This piece was written back in SEPTEMBER for 3 Maisons de Couture zine by @Pochips and im only remembering to publish it now!! The prompt was "the model through the eyes of the photographer". It's supposed to be a gen piece but what can I say, my sylvix bias will always shine through
> 
> Title for this fic comes from the song Gold in the Air of Summer by Kings of Convenience. I hope you'll like it even if it's so short!!! :(

Byleth has always had very good intuition, especially when it comes to seeing the inner darkness in people, the things they keep under lock like a cursed existence in the tower of their minds; but contrary to everyone she has ever met in the business, Felix Fraldarius is deceptively honest about how much of an asshole he is.

Byleth would not have noticed him, at first, if it had not been for Sylvain almost dropping her precious camera to the ground - a man coming onto the studio set, small, smaller than the models she’s used to shoot, especially for high fashion brands such as Faerghus. He looks like a ghost in gossamer, long and flowy white trousers foaming like surf around his legs and brushing the edge of flat-heeled shoes, hyaline turtleneck dress downstriped with sheer thread hugging his bare chest and fluming along the fabric until it evanesces vaporous at his heels. The ivory robe around his shoulders and arms plummets smooth and delicate in soft, straight lines, grazing the ground he walks on with the pliancy of seawind.

Hair of charcoal and lashes of cinders corral amber eyes catching calcined copper in the right light, a pair of subdued suns rising over a monochrome winter skyline, and the way his gaze sharpens on them like a sword on a whetstone would bring shivers down Byleth’s spine, if she was the kind to be phased by people.

“Hey there,” Sylvain says after three nervously determined and abnormally wide footsteps in the man’s overall direction, “I’m Sylvain, and you’re-”

“Not interested in discussion.”

Yes, Byleth’s intuition truly never fails her.

In line with Byleth’s predictions, Sylvain does not let the harsh baritone of the voice deter him in any way, and his lips curl into a smile Byleth knows all too well. “Good. Then let’s just let our bodies do the talki—”

“Very sorry for my assistant,” Byleth intervenes before there’s real, human blood in the water of the model’s outfit, putting a hand to Sylvain’s mouth and pushing him back, hard. “Byleth Eisner. I was hired by Miss Hresvelg for today’s photoshoot.”

There’s a thin line of ink across his eyelids, dark lashes made longer and thicker by the weight of makeup Annette and Mercedes must have applied over his face before he came into the studio — running late, most likely because of Claude, who had grandiosed his way through half-hearted apologies to Edelgard in the hallway leading to the huge room _Adrestia Magazine_ used for their in-house photoshoots.

“At least Dimitri wouldn’t have been late,” Edelgard had said to Byleth as she and Sylvain were busy setting up the light panels, “and he most certainly wouldn’t have said he was” — her jaw had cringed then — “ _fashionably late._ ”

Byleth had actually thought the pun to be pretty funny, which means she had raised a single eyebrow and her eyes had creased a millimeter more. Still, she couldn’t blame Edelgard for being this tense; Byleth can just about imagine the kind of weight a young woman of her caliber has to carry on her tiny shoulders and slender frame — the full burden of establishing and elevating an up-and-coming, high-end magazine, one that has no choice but to be good enough to rival Rhea’s _Seiros_ and the monthly’s unparagoned dominion over fashion press. Plus, Byleth knows that for how much Edelgard and her step-brother bicker, his lead designer and partner Claude von Riegan is an actual genius, one that weaves magic into embroidery and transmutes wonder into sequins, and one any young face in the business has better be nice to.

“I’ve heard about you,” the model says, and Byleth is not sure if he’s addressing her or Sylvain. It _would_ make sense, she thinks, because the heir of Gautier Couture had been a renowned model before he’d thrown his whole career to the winds in order to pick up a camera and shoot alongside Byleth; he’s the kind of man people write songs about — she’s almost certain that Dorothea Arnault has dedicated an entire album to him, aptly entitled Crimson. But long, pale fingers extend towards her, eyes like burnished embers flaring in the neon lights as they fixate on her face. “I’m Felix Fraldarius.”

“I hope you’ve heard good things, at least,” Byleth answers, and lets her lips curl into a small smile as she shakes his hand.

The lo-fi music Sylvain puts on speakers drowns Felix’s reply.

The room is relatively cool as Edelgard closes the door behind her and sits down in a chair, Annette and Mercedes following with makeup cases and hair ties, and the whisper of a shiver seems to resound along the gaps in the cape where Felix’s forearms peek out. At the same time Sylvain picks up their three reflectors, he casually pushes an extra heater with the side of his foot along the edge of the backdrop, flicking it on with the nudge of his toes; if Felix notices, he doesn’t mention it, and refocuses his gaze on Byleth instead.

She smiles as she raises her DSLR, and when the shutter closes around her vision for the first time, Felix is like a completely different person.

The clothes wane gibbous swirls around his silhouette as he moves, holding poses for half-a-dozen shutters before shifting, ever graceful in the stringency of his posture. His long hair softens the sharp edges of his face as it tumbles down his shoulders or falls from fastened fingers, his figure cutting a pale shadow against the steel grey background, eyes of molten glass the only vivid pigment in Byleth’s viewfinder. He echoes wind and waves and warmth, ethereal like a remembrance of things past, a physical translation of the breath Byleth knows Sylvain is holding captive inside his lungs as he slants the diffuser. The spotlight casts across his shape in shades of counterfeit daylight, as though harmonizing itself to the tune of his tiny steps and fluctuations, remodeling its ebbs and flows to clothe him better than any fabric ever could.

She lowers her hands and the lens follows like a singular gaze grazing down his frame. “Sylvain, can you go and grab the other outfits?”

He’s back in less time than it probably took for Byleth to silently roll up another background; Felix truly doesn’t seem interested in talking, but the silence is not uncomfortable — it rather feels like spending time with an unknown, like-minded soul. Sylvain carefully places the other clothes on several chairs near Edelgard’s, keeping one that he hands to Felix — or rather, tries to hand to Felix, before he notices that the model has unceremoniously removed all items of clothing except his underwear, and chokes on his own breathing. Byleth huffs a sound close to laughter when he immediately turns back around again, and chuckles a little more openly when Felix knowingly asks her assistant to come and help him zip up his outfit.

Annette fans some more loose powder over his features as Mercedes cinches his waist with a black-and-gold belt; what dresses him now could almost be a gown, if the bottom was an actual skirt and not the long, large black pants embroidered with gold that climb along his hips. His chest is still half-bared, two solid strips of black silk scaling up his skin like suspenders, the top of the jumpsuit flaring in dotted swiss puffy sleeves dripped with golden stitching. Felix cuts a magnificent view as Mercedes ties up his hair in a loose bun, eyes accented aureate as he nods to Byleth that he’s ready to shoot again.

They go through the other clothes and fabrics in much the same way, music eclipsing every attempt at conversation different from the quiet unword the sound of the shutter speaks, a one-way discussion between two unlikely artists, between the doomed daughter of a documentary photographer and the fated friend of a fashion magnate. The pictures fall and fall and fall in partitions like heartbeats and curtains of pouring rain. The rich jumpsuit untwines to leave room for sequined slate slacks and a frilly alabaster button-up, which ten minutes later come loose to allow for a sheer charcoal shirt and tight charcoal bermudas under charcoal chiffon pants, which in turn fade like smoke into black shorts belted at the waist and nothing else, really — not until Annette drapes an open jacket spotted with translucent fabric over Felix’s bare shoulders and slides down simple garters over his thighs and slides up knee-high boots over his calves, and Felix lets out the most beautiful smile and laugh she’s seen in months when he spots Sylvain flushing as red as his hair at the sight.

“Sylvain,” Byleth calls, just because she feels like teasing him, “make him laugh again. For the pictures.”

“You’re awful, you know that?” is everything he says in answer, and the model laughs again, quieter and brighter.

She readies herself again as Felix shifts on his feet, when she barely hears the rustle of Claude’s jewelry as he steps up behind her. She has not even heard him enter the room, testament to how focused she was. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Good is an understatement. He’s barely 174 centimeters tall, with too much muscle in his arms and thighs, and would be rejected on sight for every runway application and most modeling jobs; he’s most probably the best model Byleth has ever shot, and he’s not even _experienced._

“He’s alright,” she answers, and the camera lens shutters close.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this very short fic!! Please tell me if you'd be interested in me writing more in this universe!!


End file.
